


crystal chandelier

by bobaisbest



Series: new me, same us [2]
Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:28:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25704361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bobaisbest/pseuds/bobaisbest
Summary: “You’re so fucking whipped,” Ten laughs.
Relationships: Kim Dongyoung | Doyoung/Lee Taeyong
Series: new me, same us [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1864150
Comments: 30
Kudos: 253





	crystal chandelier

**Author's Note:**

> written as a companion/sequel piece to the first work in the series - I would recommend you read that one just to provide a little more context about what happens in this one 💚

For the first time in five years, Doyoung thinks they have it good. The last time he felt this way, they were twenty-two and just signed a lease for an awfully small apartment in the middle of Manhattan. It’s different now, because they’re older and quite changed.

But the happiness feels just the same.

  
  
  


“Oh,  _ fuck,”  _ Taeyong groans, throwing his head back as Doyoung slowly works a mouth over his length, fingers digging into the soft skin of his hips.

“Are you close?” Doyoung asks, pulling off just to get the last word in. It doesn’t last long though, because he goes back to it immediately, lips plush against flushed skin.

_ “Hurry up,” _ Taeyong hisses, shoving a knuckle into his mouth just to bite back his moans. “Everyone will be here soon.”

He’s right. Out in the dining room, there’s trays of hot food set up, testament to the hours of labor Taeyong had put in the day before. Wine is decanting in the crystal pitchers and a stack of thank-cards lay inconspicuously on the nightstand, folded neatly into cream envelopes. They’re cutting it close. Really fucking close. But Taeyong had looked a little too frazzled and Doyoung insisted on pounding one out just before the guests came.

“I don’t even understand why we’re having a house-warming when you’ve already lived here for  _ ten months,”  _ Doyoung complains, pumping Taeyong in one hand to the pace of his heartbeat.

“It’s—  _ fuck,  _ do that again,” Taeyong groans. “It’s just basic courtesy. Plus, Johnny said he’s bringing an expensive gift.”

“Can you not talk about Johnny while I’m getting you off?” Doyoung says, twisting his hand in a particularly cruel way.

Taeyong doesn’t last long after that. He never was, not with the way Doyoung can get him so desperate that easily.

_ “Doyoung,”  _ he cries, the last warning he can manage before pleasure overtakes his body, muscles seizing as he rolls his eyes back.

Doyoung doesn’t say anything, just looks at him with dark eyes while he sucks at his tip, milking him dry as he swallows down every last drop. The room becomes quiet then, Taeyong struggling to catch his breath being the only sound there is. And even like this, he’s gorgeous, hair stuck to his forehead as he gasps for air, slowly coming down from the high. Doyoung can’t help but admire.

“Thanks,” he says, sitting back with a smirk. “I don’t think I’m that hungry anymore.”

Taeyong groans, throwing an arm over his face.

“Shut up,” he says, pulling his pants up just in time to hear a loud knocking sound.

Doyoung’s smile grows wider at that, reaching out to squeeze Taeyong tight at the waist.

“I bet that’s Johnny. Aren’t you going to get the door,  _ honey?” _

And for that, Taeyong shoves him into the couch.

  
  
  


Doyoung slowly gets used to being friends with Johnny. He owns the art gallery, after all, so it’s not like his presence can be ignored.

It’s quite embarrassing at first, because Johnny was there for Taeyong when Doyoung wasn’t, remaining confidential to the way their non-relationship had progressed throughout the years. But Doyoung supposes that he can’t judge too much because there is also Jungwoo, who Doyoung spilled his guts to after just a week of knowing each other. Jungwoo just has one of those personalities, a sweet face that could unlock your secrets but also keep them guarded in his bolstered vault of friendship.

“I’m happy for you,” Jungwoo says, voice cheerful through the phone. “But hotels in LA are so expensive. Can I please stay in the spare bedroom if I visit?”

In reality, there is no spare bedroom.

Well, it  _ was  _ Taeyong’s spare bedroom, which Doyoung begged to stay in for a couple weeks while he still got settled in new territory. He had taken the job offer on quite a whim, booking his tickets before even considering where he would stay. This was Doyoung, doing things on the fly, and Doyoung  _ never  _ does anything on the fly. It was so outrageous that Taeyong simply threw his arms open and said  _ yes, of course you can stay in my spare bedroom. _

“I knew the hotels would be fine,” Doyoung later says, explaining himself over an expensive steak dinner (he said he wanted to do things right this time). “But I also kind of—“ he corrects himself there, “—I  _ really  _ wanted to see you too.”

And across the candlelit table, Taeyong blushes deep.

“Ah, I’m glad,” he says, hiding behind a glass of wine. “I really wanted to see you too.”

And so the spare bedroom became Doyoung’s bedroom.

It was funny like this, living with Taeyong but not sleeping in the same bed as him. They agreed to keep it slow, nothing more than dinner dates and the occasional slow kiss. It feels oddly similar to when they danced around each other in college, skittish but unable to hide the emotions they so deeply felt.

To be honest, it was a good effort. A really good effort. But even the best of efforts can be shattered at some point. It is a typical evening, both of them home late from work, watching television while a box of takeout lay abandoned on the living room table. Doyoung wraps an arm around him, kisses him gently on the forehead to the music of late night commercials, and Taeyong finally decides that he’s had enough.

“Doyoung,” he says, tilting his head up for an actual kiss, a  _ real _ kiss, one that’s deep and warm and will have him feeling Taeyong’s tongue in his mouth for days.

“Yeah?” Doyoung says, heart caught in his throat as he catches his breath. “What do you want?”

Taeyong just pulls him close and says,

“I want you to fuck me right now.”

And then after that, there was really nothing stopping them from doing it on every surface possible. Doyoung finds it hard to be in any room without thinking about how Taeyong had looked, splayed across the surface in pleasure as Doyoung gave it to him exactly the way he wanted. And  _ god,  _ it was a good thing neither of them had guests over that much because Doyoung isn’t quite sure if he can stop himself from bursting into flames just thinking about those dirty, indecent moments.

So yes, there was a spare bedroom. And when asked if Jungwoo could stay with them if he ever visited, Taeyong said _ of course he’s welcome anytime, just make sure to move all your stuff into our bedroom before he gets here. _

And that’s the exact moment everything hits him. Like a slap across the face— but in a good way.

Taeyong called it  _ our _ bedroom.

  
  
  


If Doyoung were to choose the most aggravating person he’s met since moving out west, it would be, by a long shot, his co-worker Ten.

Okay, he isn’t  _ awful.  _ In fact, Ten is one of Doyoung’s closest friends here, although that isn’t saying much because Doyoung practically has  _ no  _ friends here. It’s just hard, making new friends and all. Doyoung is quite adept at networking and kissing ass (thank you, investment banking), but socializing has never been his real forte. Luckily for them, it is Ten’s.

Ten spies him across the living room, caught in the middle of a particularly dry conversation with one of Taeyong’s wealthier patrons. If it was up to Doyoung, he’d spill his glass of wine just for an excuse to retreat into the kitchen. But that’s not going to happen. After all, there are times when Taeyong has endured much worse for the sake of Doyoung, so something like this is the least he can do.

Instead, what happens is this: Ten saunters over, a vague smile on his face. Then a hand slowly trails up Doyoung’s arm, and Doyoung does not even have to look to know that the hand belongs to Ten.

“Hi,” Ten says, fairly sweet. “Can I borrow you for a moment?”

“Sure,” Doyoung replies, matching his tone with an equally fake voice. “Excuse me.”

And then Ten drags him to the kitchen, which is quiet and thankfully devoid of all company.

“Can you not touch me inappropriately when my boyfriend is present in the room?” Doyoung complains. It’s really not a big deal, because Taeyong is well aware of who Ten is, but that doesn’t mean Doyoung isn’t allowed to nag.

“Does that mean I can touch you inappropriately when your boyfriend  _ isn’t  _ in the room?” Ten coyly asks.

Doyoung rolls his eyes severely.

“What do you want?” he says, already irritated at the fact that he’ll eventually have to go back out there and play the good host. Agreeing to this was so unnecessary. He and Taeyong never have guests over and they should have kept it that way.

“I just wanted to say hello,” Ten replies, completely unaffected by Doyoung’s worsening attitude. It’s a skill he developed within the first week of knowing Doyoung because, well, you kind of had to if you wanted to maintain any sort of relationship with him, friendly or professional.

“Well, hello then,” Doyoung says, refilling his wine as he scarfs down some tiny bruschetta. He’s been talking so damn much that he’s barely had time to  _ eat.  _ Ten just grins.

“Your place is huge,” he comments, gesturing vaguely at their surroundings. “And nice, too. It looks like it came straight out of Architectural Digest.”

“It’s not my place,” Doyoung snorts. “It’s Taeyong’s.”

Ten raises his eyebrows.

“I didn’t take you as the sugar baby type,” he goads, smiling with all of his teeth.

“Well, I paid his rent for a good two years,” Doyoung mutters. 

“Now that’s some tea,” Ten remarks. “And speaking of Taeyong—”

He shoots Doyoung a mischievous look.

“I must say that I’m impressed. He looks even better than he does in your pictures.”

Doyoung rolls his eyes again, but this time, good-naturedly.

“Yes, my boyfriend is fucking hot. Tell me something I don’t know.”

That makes Ten laugh, a full-bodied chuckle that bounces off their shiny granite countertops.

“Well, congrats then,” he says. “I heard you guys have been together for what, seven? Eight years?”

“We started dating eight years ago,” Doyoung confirms. “But I would say we've been together for…ah, maybe five? There was a long break in the middle.”

Ten looks at him thoughtfully.

“That couldn’t have been easy,” he says, careful with his words.

Doyoung nods in agreement, impressed that Ten is being sensitive for once.

“I mean, it was rough for a while but—”

He looks out to the living room where Taeyong looks the most comfortable he’s been in years. Like a flower with its petals unfurled in the sunlight, he blooms bright in their home. Doyoung suddenly remembers why he said yes to this whole thing.

“—I think we’re really happy right now.”

  
  
  


It’s peach season. Doyoung doesn’t really care for peaches that much, but Taeyong likes them and Doyoung is predisposed to liking anything that Taeyong likes too.

So that’s how they find themselves at the farmer’s market one Friday morning, Taeyong sniffing his way through the stands.

“I can’t believe you dragged me out for this,” Doyoung grumbles, obsessively checking his phone one last time before realizing that his team wouldn’t really care if he disappeared for an hour (they submitted a big proposal yesterday, so maybe that’s why). He pockets the device before shifting eyes to his boyfriend, who was, for some reason, aggressively smelling the fruit.

“Smell this,” Taeyong says, shoving a large fuzzy peach in his face. The scent is heady, thickly sweet, and even Doyoung can tell that just a day more and it would become overripe.

“How much do we need?” Doyoung asks, watching Taeyong grab more for their growing pile. “What are we going to do with—” he counts for a moment, “— _ fourteen _ peaches?”

“I can make jam,” Taeyong reasons, holding up yet another contender and weighing it contemplatively in his palm. It passes the test apparently, because Taeyong gingerly places it into the basket Doyoung carries and now fourteen becomes fifteen.

Doyoung holds back a smile.

It’s ridiculous that Taeyong gets so overly excited about  _ peaches,  _ of all things, but he knows that if Taeyong is happy, then he is happy too. After all, his wrists are starting to get sore but he holds out a little longer because, well, Taeyong likes peaches. It’s as simple as that.

-

Taeyong has been occupied for the better part of the hour, slicing peaches in their kitchen. Doyoung ambles in slowly, displeased that he was left to wake up in an empty, cold bed.

“What are you doing?” he mumbles, straight into the shell of Taeyong’s ear as he wraps his arms around his waist and hooks a chin over his shoulder.

“I’m canning peaches,” Taeyong replies, pointing to the row of sterilized glass jars set aside on the counter. “I’ll be done soon, I promise.”

Doyoung doesn’t like to be bratty. He’s generally above that. But it’s eight in the morning on a beautiful Saturday and his gorgeous boyfriend is paying him no attention at all.

“But I’m hungry,” he whines, tightening his grasp on Taeyong’s body. He shoves his face into the spot between his shoulder blades, soaking in warmth through the thin fabric of his shirt.

Taeyong’s movements on the cutting board halt for a moment.

“Fine,” he sighs, slicing a sizable piece off the rose flesh of the peach. “Take this—”

He hands over the wedge, sticky and sweet.

“Thanks,” Doyoung says, accepting the gift. The peach is soft, softer than he expected, and juice bursts as he bites, dripping down his chin and through his fingers. It’s messy and will be oh-so-annoying to clean up.

_ “Doyoung,”  _ Taeyong hisses, reacting on reflex. He holds Doyoung’s hand up to his mouth, licking juice off his palm. His tongue swirls in motion, soft and gentle, and something coils low inside Doyoung’s gut.

“Turn around,” he says, hot into the skin of Taeyong’s neck. His boyfriend shudders, shoving the cutting board away to a safe distance before spinning to obey.

Doyoung hoists him onto the counter, roughly spreading his legs open so he can occupy the space in between. Taeyong looks flushed, because he’s never been good at hiding how desperate he becomes around Doyoung. A pink tongue peeks out, licking at the juice on his lips. Doyoung leans forward for a taste.

The kiss tastes like peaches, obviously, and something else that’s so distinctly Taeyong. Maybe it’s mouthwash, or the nasty teeth-whitening toothpaste that he insists on using, but Doyoung doesn’t really have the capacity to really think about that when there’s more blood in his dick than his brain.

“What do you want?” he asks, taking his time in suckling bruises behind Taeyong’s jaw.

“Anything,” Taeyong says. “Your hand, your mouth—”

Doyoung shuts him up by shoving his hand down the front of Taeyong’s sleep shorts, teasing him with practiced strokes and a tongue in his ear.

“Like this?” he whispers, and Taeyong doesn’t really respond. He makes these punched out  _ ah ah ah  _ noises, almost choking on air as the grasp on his dick tightens, speeding up in pace.

“Bed—” Taeyong gasps. “We should go to the bed—”

They don’t make it to the bed.

  
  
  


The night is only halfway through but Doyoung’s patience is just about finished.

“You okay?” Taeyong asks, peeking out the glass door of their balcony with his hands free of any food or drink. Maybe he set it down somewhere. Or maybe he hasn’t eaten at all.

“You know,” Doyoung says, watching Taeyong close the door behind him. “When you said you wanted to throw a house-warming, I did not anticipate that someone would spill red wine on our  _ three-thousand dollar couch.” _

It was actually three-thousand five-hundred and twelve dollars, but Doyoung won’t point that out for sake of a smooth argument.

“I’m sorry,” Taeyong says, resting his arms on the railing. He looks at their driveway, which is packed full of cars, and then into the distance, where twilight emerges from the clouds.

“Why are you even apologizing?” Doyoung grumbles. “It’s not really your fault. They said they would pay for it to get professionally cleaned, which is fine. But it’s so  _ annoying—” _

Taeyong just laughs, his mirth carried by the wind, like a songbird in the night.

“Well, it was Chanyeol,” he says, lips hooked into a smile. “You know he’s like, even richer than Johnny? He might even just pay for a new couch.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Doyoung frowns. “You know how much I like that couch.”

“Tell you what,” Taeyong says, reaching into his pocket like he’s got a dirty secret kept inside. Doyoung’s eyes widen as he produces cigarettes and an old zippo lighter. “I’ll let you smoke if it makes you feel better.”

It’s tempting, the prospect of lighting a fresh one and blowing smoke in the breeze. It’s a nice gesture on Taeyong’s part, but Doyoung will have to refuse. He can’t go back on his promise, even if the person he made the promise to is also the one offering to let him break it.

“No,” he says. “I’ll be fine.”

“You sure?” Taeyong asks, rattling the menthol Sobranies. “Last call.”

“I’m sure,” Doyoung nods. “Let’s just go back.”

Then he wheedles the door open, beckoning his boyfriend back inside.

Taeyong pockets the goods and follows immediately.

  
  
  


Somewhere along the way, Taeyong tries to get Doyoung to quit smoking. It works out well for a month, but explodes into a petty argument when Doyoung discovers the stash that Taeyong himself keeps at work, hidden away neatly inside his desk drawer.

“What is  _ this?”  _ he hisses, fishing out a pack of menthols instead of the ruler that Taeyong originally requested he locate.

“Hey, did you find— oh, shit,” Taeyong says, balancing canvas boards in his arms with a frigid expression. “I can explain.”

“Please do,” Doyoung says, folding his arms in the most judgemental way he can manage.

Taeyong deposits the canvases at his desk and takes the package, still shrink-wrapped in crystal clear plastic.

“I bought this a long time ago,” he explains. “Before I made you quit.”

“But you made me throw away all of mine,” Doyoung points out, snatching it back from Taeyong’s grip. “So we should throw away this one too—”

_ “No,”  _ Taeyong cries, and Doyoung freezes, hand poised over the trash can.

“What?” he asks, challenging an answer.

“Those were expensive,” Taeyong scrambles. “They’re my favorite kind, um— I might need them—”

_ “You _ might need them?” Doyoung bursts. “What about  _ me?” _

“Fine!” Taeyong subsides. “You can take half. We can smoke out this pack and then we have to stop.”

Doyoung stares at Taeyong like he’s grown another head.

“Wait, really?” he asks, wholly unused to getting what he wants so easily. “Do you— um, wanna smoke one right now?”

Taeyong’s hand twitches, exhaustion burning through his veins. It’s been a difficult month. Doyoung has his hands full of a new client and Taeyong’s been in and out on nights and weekends, prepping for the spring showcase. Maybe just this once, to take the edge off. After all, they still had a whole pack to go through.

“Yeah,” Taeyong breathes. “I could use one right now.”

-

They light another one after they get home, in the comfort of their bed with the TV on and the windows wide open. 

“If my breath starts smelling nasty, you have to let me know,” Taeyong says, cigarette perched between his fingers. “I don’t want you to think my kisses taste bad.”

“How would I even be able to tell?” Doyoung snorts. “If your breath smells nasty, then so will mine. We’ll be the same.”

“Then let’s not let it get to that point,” Taeyong huffs, passing it over to Doyoung.

“Thanks,” Doyoung says, bringing it to his lips for a breath of cloying smoke.

For a moment, they stay quiet like that, watching but not watching the shitty romcom they’ve randomly pulled up from Taeyong’s Netflix account. The night is quite soothing, its moon hanging high like a crystal chandelier, and Doyoung thinks he’s about to get sleepy. This train of thought is duly broken when Taeyong roughly places two hands on his chest, straddles a leg over his lap, and sits right on his dick.

“Again?” Doyoung asks, gently thumbing at the skin of Taeyong’s thighs, soft under the legs of his shorts. His other hand still holds the cigarette.

“It’s fine if you don’t want to,” Taeyong lightly says, his movements betraying his tone as he grinds his hips down. “I can just go to the bathroom and take care of it myself.”

“No, don’t do that,” Doyoung says softly, tossing the cigarette into their makeshift ashtray (it’s just a small plate) which rests precariously on the other pillow. “How do you want me?”

“Just like this,” Taeyong replies, bending down for a vicious, open-mouthed kiss.

If Doyoung had been more aware, he would’ve seen the ashtray tip over, spilling cinders and a still-lit cigarette onto their ivory white sheets. He’s not, though, more focused on the feeling of Taeyong’s tongue against his. They both don’t see it.

However, they do smell it, when Taeyong lifts his head up mid-kiss and asks,

“Do you smell that? Smells like something is burning—”

Doyoung spots the ashtray, upside down in a mess of grey and black, tiny embers smoking on the fabric.

_ “Fuck,”  _ he exclaims, nearly throwing Taeyong off the bed in his haste to put out the cigarette, jabbing it harshly into the cold porcelain of the ashtray. Then he examines the damage, where it’s apparent that their negligence has burned a tiny hole through the fitted sheet.

“Shit,” Taeyong says. “I really liked these sheets.”

“Me too,” Doyoung mutters, trying his best to sweep up the remaining ashes.

Taeyong gets off the bed and heads to the bathroom, returning with a wet cloth which he proffers to Doyoung.

“Do you remember where I got these?” he asks. “We might as well order a new set.”

Doyoung thinks for a moment.

“I don’t know,” he responds. “You brought them over from New York. Pretty sure Jaehyun gave them to you.”

“Fuck, I think they were fancy. Can you ask him where he got them?”

Doyoung just sighs, rubbing his temples at how stupidly teenage this situation is.

“Yeah, I’ll call him.”

-

As expected, Jaehyun just laughs at him.

“You mean to tell me that you guys accidentally set fire to your thousand-plus thread count bed sheets because you were too horny to put out your cigarette?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Doyoung groans, holding the phone away from his ear when Jaehyun guffaws through the speaker.

“Hey, Sicheng,” Jaehyun says. “I’m on the phone with Doyoung. Come here and listen to this—”

Doyoung hangs up the phone.

  
  
  


“What?” Doyoung asks, wriggling uncomfortably under Johnny’s piercing stare.

Maybe it’s just his face, or perhaps it’s his height, but to Doyoung, Johnny always gave the impression that he knew a little too much. That was his assumption when they first met and now that he knows Johnny a little better, he knows that it’s whole-heartedly true. There’s not much that Johnny Seo doesn’t know, whether Doyoung likes it or not. He accepted a long time ago that the man just doesn’t have a single clueless bone inside his big body.

“Nothing,” Johnny says, laughing as he sips his wine. “It’s just funny seeing you struggle.”

“There’s nothing funny about that,” Doyoung mutters. He’s never really been able to put up a fight against someone as apathetic as Johnny.

“Don’t worry, it’s nothing serious,” Johnny assures. “I was just wondering how Taeyong got you to agree to all of  _ this.” _

_ This  _ being the entire ordeal which surrounds them, crowds of people inside their home, walking around with glasses of wine, plucking hors d'oeuvres from glass plates while complementing Taeyong’s abstract choice of art. Doyoung is not a social creature and so much of this was honestly nerve-wracking. But it’s fine all the same because this is for Taeyong. Always for Taeyong.

“You make it sound like I’m stubborn,” he says. “Which, I guess I used to be. I’m better now, though. Right?”

“Right,” Johnny grins. “Sehun would barely recognize you. I heard you quit smoking?”

“Trying to,” Doyoung corrects, recalling the last time he smoked (it was literally last week). There were four left in Taeyong’s pack. He was definitely counting them down.

“Well, you have to start somewhere,” Johnny says, “You’ll probably survive.”

“Probably,” Doyoung echoes, flattered by Johnny’s vote of confidence. Then he looks around for a moment, ensuring that his boyfriend is well out of earshot. “So, about Taeyong’s birthday—”

“Already on it,” Johnny says. “I can try to book out the gallery on a weekend, if you can just do me a small favor.”

“What?” Doyoung asks, a faint smile on his face. He can already guess what it is.

“Give me Ten’s number.”

  
  
  


“Who is  _ that?”  _ Ten asks, proceeding to ignore basic social guidelines of personal privacy by reaching over Doyoung’s shoulder to point at the picture on his laptop.

Doyoung frowns.

“That’s my boyfriend,” he says. “How many times have we gone through this?”

“Nooo, not Taeyong,” Ten shakes his head. “Who is  _ that?” _

Then he shifts his finger, tapping Johnny right on the cheek. Two-dimensional Johnny smiles back in the form of pixels on a screen.

“Oh,” Doyoung says. “That’s Johnny, Taeyong’s boss. They’re like, best friends.”

“I see,” Ten says, looking more and more interested. “He’s smoking hot. Is he single?”

Doyoung looks at him judgmentally.

“Hey,” he says, slapping Ten hard on the shoulder. “No funny business during our house-warming.”

“Doyoung, I would  _ never.”  _ Ten dramatically places a hand over his heart. “It was just a simple question.”

“I’m serious,” Doyoung grumbles. “Taeyong spent way too much time planning this out, so the evening has to go perfect. And yes, Johnny is single. So  _ please—” _

“Okay, okay. I’ll be on my best behavior,” Ten relents. “Besides, why are you guys doing this when you’ve lived there for almost a year? It’s a bit too late now, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, that’s what I said,” Doyoung admits. “But, you know— with Taeyong, it’s just, well…”

He gestured vaguely with no real purpose. It wouldn’t be the first time Ten’s seen Doyoung lack coherent thoughts when it comes to his boyfriend. A simple observation which speaks volumes on their relationship.

“You’re so fucking whipped,” Ten laughs, expecting another reprimand.

Instead, Doyoung just smiles, an uncharacteristic expression seen on this side of the office.

“Yeah,” he says. “I guess I really am.”

  
  
  


The night ends slowly, which is too slow for Doyoung because he'd rather everyone leave all at once than trickle out gradually. The universe doesn’t give him what he wants, though, so Doyoung finds himself bidding guests goodbye over the course of an hour.

“Why are you still here?” he grumbles, side-eyeing his friend after realizing that literally everyone else is gone.

“You big meanie,” Ten complains. “I wanted to keep you company while everyone left.”

Doyoung rolls his eyes as he dumps dirty wine glasses into the sink. Taeyong would absolutely wither if he saw how rough Doyoung was treating their crystalware. But Taeyong is currently in the bathroom and for some reason, Ten is  _ still  _ here.

“Thanks,” Doyoung says, scrubbing particularly hard on a lipstick-stained cup. “But your presence is no longer required.”

“Fine,” Ten replies, voice far away because he’s already at the door, putting his shoes on. “I’ll see you on Monday!”

And then the door clicks shut.

“Finally,” Doyoung huffs, lamenting the clean-up he’ll have to do but thankful for the quiet. It doesn’t last long, though, because Taeyong emerges from the bathroom just a couple moments later.

“Hey,” he says, turning off the kitchen faucet while Doyoung is still mid-wash. “We can do this later. Let’s go to bed.”

The way he says  _ bed  _ implies that they won’t really be sleeping.

“Are you sure?” Doyoung asks, wiping his hands down on a kitchen towel. “You’re not too tired?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Taeyong laughs. “Let’s go. You won’t even have to prep me.”

“What?” Doyoung asks, raising his eyebrows at the broad implication.

“What do you think I was doing in the bathroom?” Taeyong winks. “I promise I don’t take  _ that  _ long to pee. And besides, I still owe you one for earlier.”

Doyoung laughs right then, looking at Taeyong with all the love in the world. Here they stand, in the middle of their shared home, dirty dishes in the sink and terrible merlot stain on their three-thousand dollar couch, and everything’s good. Really fucking good.

And for the first time in five years, Doyoung knows it’s the best he’s ever had.

**Author's Note:**

> hey i know it’s been three months i’m sorry but i’m BACK lol work has just been craaazy lately i’m like barely holding on. i really wasn’t planning on writing a sequel but i just love these characters too much and it felt nice to revisit them. like honestly, i’ve got TONS of stuff that have been stuck in the drafts for literal months but somehow this one was churned out in TWO DAYS lmao someone pls tell me what’s up w that. as always, tysm for reading until the end 💚💚💚


End file.
